Sir To.

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

Fab.

Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.

Sir To.

Would'st thou not be glad to have the

niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

Fab.

I would exult, man; you know, he brought me out of favour with my Lady, about a bear-baiting here.

Sir To.

To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew?

Sir And.

An we do not, it's pity of our lives.

Sir To.

Here comes the little villain: how now, my nettle of India?* ^note

Mar.

Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolio's coming down this walk, he has been yonder i'th'sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! lye thou there; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.